During the last years of their lives the old King and Queen had seldom
left the Palace. They sought seclusion, though for different reasons.
The King, who was gay and shy, did not wish his pleasures to be
observed. He had gathered a suitable circle of friends round him, and
was content. There was Agathocles—who, by the way, was Prime Minister;
there was Agathoclea—who, by the way, was the little prince’s nurse;
there was Œnanthe, the mother of the two A.’s, an elderly but
accomplished woman who knew how to shampoo. And there were one or two
more, for instance the wife of a forage contractor who would say to the
King, “Here, Daddy, drink this.” The King liked young women who called
him Daddy; and he drank, and when he had drunk enough he would get up
and dance, the others danced too, he would fall down, it was all
delightful. But it was not a delight he desired his subjects to witness.
The Queen employed herself otherwise. Shut up in her own apartments, she
meditated on the past. She thought of all the years when she had been on
trial: the King had never cared for her, and, though negotiating for the
marriage, had kept her waiting. Then came the Battle of Rafa. The
Syrians were invading Egypt, and just as the Egyptian army was breaking
she had ridden forth among the elephants, her hair streaming, her colour
high, and had turned defeat into victory. She became the popular
heroine, and he married her. But for nine years they had had no child.
She could see no hope anywhere. The child had come, but the situation
had not changed. Months passed, and still she sat in the Palace
enclosure—the Fortress inside the fortress of the Royal City—and looked
from the promontory that we now call Silsileh across the harbour to
Pharos, and over the unvarying expanse of the sea.
Change came at last. One night, when the King fell down, he failed to
get up again. Agathoclea paid him every attention, but he passed into a
stupor and died in her arms. His friends were in despair. He had been
such a jolly old King. And besides, what were they to do? The Queen, on
the other hand, came forward in an unexpected light. There was no
occasion for anxiety, she told them. She knew what to do quite well. She
was now Regent, and her first act was to dismiss the ministry. Moreover,
since he was now four years old, her son no longer required a nurse. The
old heroic feelings came back to her. Life seemed worth living again;
She returned to her apartments full of exaltation. She entered them. As
she did so, the curtains, which had been soaked with inflammable oil in
her absence, burst into flame. She tried to retire. The doors had been
locked behind her, and she was burnt to death.
And the life of Alexandria went on as before. Œnanthe and her progeny
still drove about in the state carriages. The King and Queen still
failed to appear in public, and the Palace still rose inviolate inside
the walls of the Royal City. Months passed, fourteen months.
When rumours began, the A.’s neglected to act. Inertia had served them
so well that they did not know how to relinquish it. But rumours
continued, and after many consultations they devised a pageant that had
the feeblest effect. It was not true, they said, that the old King and
Queen had died a year ago. But it was true that they were dead. They had
died that very minute. Alas! Woe, oh woe! Here were their urns. Their
little son was now King. Here he was. Agathocles had been appointed
Regent. Here was the will. Agathoclea—here she was—would continue to be
nurse. The people, sceptical and sullen, watched the display, which took
place in a high gallery of the Palace, overhanging the town. The actors
made their bow, and gathering up the exhibits retired. All went on as
usual for a little longer.
It was the misgovernment of Agathocles that brought things to a crisis:
that, and the report that of the two urns only one contained human
remains: the other, which was supposed to hold the Queen, was a dummy.
Perhaps the little boy would vanish next. They must see him, touch him.
And they stormed the Palace. It was in vain that the Regent parleyed,
threatened, or that Agathoclea repeated that she was the royal nurse.
The soldiers joined the people, and they broke gate after gate. At last
the Regent cried, “Take him!” and, flinging their King at them, fled.
The child was already in tears. They put him on a horse, and led it
outside to the racecourse, where were assembled more human beings than
he had ever dreamt of, who shouted Epiphany! Epiphany! and pulled him
off the horse and made him sit on a large seat. This was the world and
he did not like it. He preferred his own little circle. Someone cried,
“Shall we not punish your mother’s murderers?” He sobbed, “Oh yes—oh
anything,” and it was so. The Regent and his sister had hidden in the
Palace. Œnanthe had driven two miles away to the Thesmophorion, a
sanctuary near the present Nouzha Gardens. All were dragged from their
retreats, tortured, and killed, the women being stripped naked first.
Such were the circumstances of the accession of Ptolemy V., surnamed
Epiphanes, 204 B.C.
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